Sometimes I'm dumb and then I write about it.

Think of the goal. The endgame. Typically when you’re dating, you’re looking for the one person. Your forever person. Your home. The one person with whom you want to grow old. The one that you want to wake up next to every morning for the rest of your life. That is what we’re looking for. That’s the objective. That’s why we put ourselves through the torture of dating. We want the happily ever after: that’s our definition of a successful relationship.

This is something with which I need to come to terms. I can’t stick around and watch someone’s life unravel. I can’t watch them self-destruct yet still somehow keep myself intact. I have to learn that sometimes love is not enough.

I’m not buying into this “new year, new me” thing.
It’s a lovely concept, but I’m the same person I was last week. I’m not going to list a bunch of goals for myself; I’m not going to blather on about how I’m going to change myself for the better this year. I won’t whine and complain about how poorly 2017 treated me. The date on the calendar doesn’t mean a thing: you are still you and whatever happens to you happens. That’s life, my friends.

When I left your house, I was happy. I was fucking happy. This should have set off warning bells, but it didn’t. I went home and I talked to my friends about you and I smiled like an idiot and gushed like a teenager.

I switched medications because I wanted to try having a wider range of emotions: I was getting tired of having only numb and number. Although I am coping better since starting this medication, I don’t have that overly medicated zombie-esque façade to which I become accustomed. Quite often it would go through my mind that perhaps this medication was not working.